by A. Turk
In her office, Sammie was listening to the news on her clock radio when the announcer reported excitedly: “According to police band radio, the assailants of prominent attorney Benjamin Davis have been spotted in downtown Nashville and are under surveillance by police. These men are believed to be armed and dangerous, and police have evacuated two blocks of downtown Broadway as a precaution.”
Sammie grabbed her sneakers from her desk drawer and put them on, jumped from her chair, and without offering an explanation to Bella, bolted out the door. She didn’t want the older woman to try to talk her out of watching the arrest firsthand.
It was a short jog from the office down Fifth Avenue to Broadway. She hurried past the red brick Ryman Auditorium, a country music shrine, on her left. It was bedlam on Broadway. TV crews were set up in the street, behind the police barricades at Seventh on Broadway, and then around the corner of Fifth on Broadway.
All of the stores and bars, between Fourth and Seventh, on both sides of Broadway, had been evacuated by the police. The merchants would complain fiercely, but public safety was paramount. The Metro police were in charge of crowd control. There were eighteen officers, six plainclothes detectives, and a police captain assigned to the stakeout.
In the middle of the two barricades was Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge. It had been located on Broadway, close to Fifth, since the 1930s. It was and still is a Nashville landmark, with its distinctive purple signage. In the thirties and forties it was a honky-tonk famous for bluegrass music. In the fifties, the music venue distinctly changed and moved forward to country music and what came to be known as the Nashville sound. In the sixties, country and country rock, also known as rockabilly, became the lounge’s meat and potatoes. At that time, it was the hangout for songwriters such as Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, and Kris Kristofferson. These unknown songsters, while heavily drinking at a table, would write a song and jump up on stage and sing. Sammie heard the stories, and Morty knew them all. He represented those songwriters. He helped them publish their songs and form their own publishing companies, and he represented them when they got busted for drugs, public intoxication, or barroom brawls.
Sammie, from Morty, knew that this stakeout was a direct result of his phone calls to news outlets. From one of the doctor’s offices at the hospital, Morty had called the editor in chief of the Nashville Banner. The prominent editor and Morty had worked together in the civil rights movement. The Davis beating story was front page and included the artist’s rendering of the two assailants.
Morty also called all three local television stations and spoke directly with their news directors. At five o’clock, on all three major networks, the lead story was the Davis beating. Quite frankly, the attack of a lawyer didn’t warrant that much sympathy. To the average citizen, the beating of a lawyer wasn’t news; it was cause for celebration.
Sammie couldn’t take her eyes off the front door of Tootsie’s. Its bright purple sign was vibrant, and there was a strange reflection from the midday sun. Even though it was late September, it was quite warm. The armpits of all of the officers were stained dark blue from perspiration and nerves. She could feel the tension in the air.
She looked at the crowd behind the barricades. Most were staring at the bar’s front door, just like her, in anticipation of conflict and possible violence. They couldn’t help themselves.
Suddenly, two men emerged from the doorway and walked onto the street. Sammie recognized them as Laurel and Hardy from the artist’s rendering and from their 1930s movie Babes in Toyland. The pair moved about six feet forward, away from the front door of the bar.
Someone shouted, “You’re under arrest! Hands behind your heads! No sudden moves or you’re dead men!”
Even from her distance, Sammie could see the eyes of both men widen and then narrow.
“Fuck off!” Laurel yelled back.
In total defiance, both men reached behind their backs in an exaggerated jerky motion. Their shirts pulled up, and Sammie and the entire TV audience saw a pistol sticking out from each man’s right hand.
The police captain in charge, in a shaky voice, began to address them on a bullhorn: “Stop right now! This is your last chance. You’re surrounded and—” The police officer never got to finish his threat.
Someone else yelled, “They’ve got guns!”
Hardy shot in the direction of the bullhorn. Everyone instinctively ducked at the crack of the gunshot. The discharge was all the excuse police needed. More than a dozen officers opened fire at the two gunmen.
Several spectators cried out. A young man who was next to Sammie yelled, “Holy shit,” and fell on top of her in a protective maneuver. His hands brushed against her firm breasts, and the man blushed.
She appreciated his effort, but he kneed her in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her. She worked her way up to her elbows so she could see, her new best friend still on top of her.
Sammie was shocked by how fast and how loud the automatic weapons were. Hardy was riddled with bullets, and immediately, a pattern of red blotches, like paint, splattered across his white shirt. She turned away and felt sick, catching her vomit in her mouth, and she breathed through her nose and choked it down.
She needed to get Dudley Do-Right off her. “Move! I can’t breathe.”
The man rolled off her. A woman next to her fell to the ground hard, and the Good Samaritan jumped into action.
Sammie turned her attention back to Hardy, who was falling backward in, what seemed to her, slow motion. Hardy finally hit the ground, striking his head on the pavement.
Laurel was hit square in the chest with the blast from both barrels of a shotgun. The force of the blast threw him right through the purple plate glass window of Tootsie’s. He landed inside the bar with several shards of purple glass sticking out of his back.
There was an audible grumble from the crowd, like that at the end of a football game. Police officers were running frantically everywhere, once again very much like on the field at the end of a big game.
Sammie was shaken. She had never seen anyone shot and killed before. She knew she would remember the scene the rest of her life.
The excitement was over. She turned and started walking up Fifth back to the office. She was in no hurry. There was nothing but more phone calls and more explaining to do back at the office. She wasn’t looking forward to recounting the shootout again and again. She just shook her head and mumbled, “Unbelievable! We’ll never find out who sent those assholes. The secret dies on Broadway.”
She knew that the third man, T-rex, was still out there, but the odds of finding him were slim to none. Davis saw only his tattoo, not his face. Laurel and Hardy weren’t lying low and decided to show their faces at a Nashville landmark while the publicity of their actions was still hot.
Sammie was relieved that they didn’t have to worry about Laurel and Hardy any longer, but she wondered whether they would have any future dealings with T-rex.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
FACE-OFF
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 27, 1993
Davis was glad that Littleton planned to attend Dr. English’s deposition that morning. Littleton attended only four of the more than sixty-three depositions but never asked a question or suggested one. Despite his lack of participation, he insisted on a copy of every deposition. What a waste of money and paper. Davis wondered what he did with them. Based on their conversations, Davis knew he didn’t read them. He was so removed from the cases that the defense counsel had stopped copying Littleton on all correspondence, and Littleton had complained.
The financial burden on Davis was wearing him down. Despite assistance from Morty and his father, he saw no light at the end of the financial tunnel. In addition his concern about his and his family’s safety had intensified, and he was now carrying a revolver in his briefcase and keeping another pistol strategically located at home. Liza insisted, for his own safety, that he take shooting lessons.
Davis had been snapping a lot at
Sammie and Bella since he got out of the hospital. It was totally unlike him, and Bella, who had wet nursed him as a clerk, had to bring him back to reality by pointing out what he was doing: “Ben, back off! We know you’re under stress, but we are the ones trying to help you in every way we can.”
Littleton arrived ten minutes early, so Davis decided it was a good time to address the expense problem. They had a written contract, and Littleton was required to advance one-third of the expenses. Davis sent Littleton the document and three letters demanding reimbursement, but Littleton chose to ignore them.
Davis said, “Brad, I need to talk to you before the deposition begins.”
“What’s up?”
“The rent is up, my friend. I have $15,000 of Plainview bills to pay, and I need you to pay them. I then need you to pay the balance of your one-third. All I’m asking you to do is to live up to your obligations.”
“I’m broke, Ben. I just don’t have it, and I can’t get it either.”
Littleton tried to change the subject by shifting to Davis’s injuries. “How are you doing? Does the shoulder still hurt?”
“Let’s just say I’ll never play the piano again. If you had been front man, you could have been the one in the hospital. Remember, after my family, even before 911, I called and warned you. I deserve some loyalty, Bradley. I’m broke also. Morty has waived my rent, I’ve exhausted my savings, and I’ve sold my stocks. I’ll have to refinance my house just to pay my personal expenses. I can’t carry my load as well as yours.”
He handed Littleton a document and pointed at it: “Here’s the accounting. At this moment you owe $70,000, but by Monday when I pay the next round of bills, you’ll owe just over $75,000.”
Davis pulled an additional document from his briefcase and continued, “These are all due in the next thirty days and will require $24,000 more. Your share is $8,000. I need a check for at least $50,000 right now.”
“I simply don’t have it. You can ask all you want, but I can’t get it,” Littleton repeated sternly.
Davis pulled another document from his briefcase. It was a new contract between Littleton and Davis dividing the fees and expenses twenty-five and seventy-five, respectively, increasing Davis’s portion of the fee by eight and a third percent. Littleton signed the document without further argument, but Davis reminded him: “Even under the new deal you still owe more than $60,000. I’ll expect your check by the end of the week. I’m not kidding, Brad. Sell something or borrow it.”
Littleton snorted, “Don’t tell me what the hell to do.”
Now Davis was angry. He was very controlled until that point. “Look, you worthless piece of shit, you haven’t lifted a finger to do any of the heavy lifting. Unlike me, you haven’t worked more than forty hours a week on Plainview while ignoring the rest of your practice. You haven’t invested your life’s savings, and nobody has beaten you up either. You need to get involved, or you need to get out.”
“My name is on all the contracts, right next to yours, in the same size print. You can’t get rid of me without risking your relationship with our clients. Remember I represent Dr. Patel—”
“Brad, you’re a fool. She’s as sick of you as I am.”
“I’ve also got a contract with her. She’s not going anywhere. I keep in touch with the Plainview clients.”
Littleton was getting on Davis’s nerves. This clown didn’t even appreciate the weakness of his position.
“They know who’s done all the work,” shot back Davis. “It won’t be hard to convince them that you’re dead weight.”
“Ben, don’t threaten me. I warn you, if you try to steal my cases, we’ll both lose them, which hurts not only us but also the clients. Don’t fuck with me!”
Davis didn’t like Littleton’s last remark. As the argument between co-counsels was about to escalate, Pierce, McCoy, Stevenson, and English walked into the room, and the subject was immediately dropped. Davis knew this was not the end of the matter, though.
It was time for him to take English’s deposition in the Jones case. The court reporter came in and set up. She swore the witness, and Davis began his examination.
“Dr. English, on Wednesday, September 22nd, I was attacked in my office. Did you have anything to do with my attack?”
English growled at him and smirked. “I thought you slipped in the bathtub,” referring to Davis’s still obvious bruises, red areas where his lips were healing, and arm in a sling. He moved deliberately, too, to avoid stressing his still painful ribs.
“No, some thugs came to my office and cowardly sucker punched me.”
“That’s too bad. You should be more careful. My guess is that in your line of business, you piss off a lot of people.”
“You don’t like me, Doctor, do you?”
“You’re not one of my favorite people. I won’t be sending you a get-well card.”
Davis decided to move on with the deposition. He questioned English thoroughly about the Jones chart. English could not explain why he performed surgery without first obtaining a sedimentation rate. English agreed that the patient’s diagnosis was generally applied to a much older person. After four hours, Davis adjourned the deposition.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CALLING ALL SURGEONS
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 30, 1993
Dr. Herman woke up and started the day by having a huge fight with his wife. The argument was about nothing. The pressure was getting to him. He realized the fight was his fault, but he couldn’t bring himself to apologize.
At the office, Herman was also short with his secretary. “I have to get control of myself. I can’t let Davis get to me and win,” he muttered under his breath while he waited for his first patient.
His office practice was still doing better than most but not what it once was. Most of his patients remained loyal, although several left at the urging of family members. Many patients stayed with him because they needed their medicine. Many of them depended on the controlled drugs he prescribed. That was one surefire way to buy loyalty.
His hospital practice had been decimated. There was no question that the lawsuits and negative publicity affected him financially. The Nashville papers were constantly running articles about the lawsuits, but the hospital managed to control the local paper. The Plainview Gazette ran several letters to the editor, which described the hospital as a vital part of the community. But local support wasn’t enough. His attorney, McCoy, warned him that his conduct was “under the microscope” and that he “needed to watch his p’s and q’s.” How dare McCoy question his medical judgment? First, his medical judgment was questioned by that asshole, Davis, now by his own lawyer.
He wasn’t just being paranoid. Herman and English were the center of discussion at every committee meeting at the hospital. They had once been heroes, the fair-haired boys; now they were villains and incompetents who practiced bad medicine.
How quickly those ingrates forget that Charlie and I turned their bankrupt hospital around. Douglas didn’t return his calls. The hospital communicated with him through his lawyers. There was no question that he made enemies on the staff, including Dr. Gerald. Gerald, the hospital’s radiologist, had been jealous of his office ultrasound practice and was now jumping on the bandwagon and kicking him while he was down.
He also recently received a letter from Blue Star of Tennessee. He was being audited for the years 1990 through 1992. Blue Star was focusing its audit on ultrasounds. During that period, he charged that one insurance company more than $700,000 for the various types of ultrasounds. This audit could be a financial disaster.
Compared to the board charges, however, the audit was insignificant. Keeping his medical license was critical. As long as he had the license, he could survive. He could always move to another state and another small rural community that was desperate for a family doctor. It was a license to steal, and he knew how to do that.
He started out with good intentions, trying to follow in the footsteps of his mother,
Dr. Margot Herman. In 1945, she was pregnant with Lars and on staff at a small hospital outside Dresden until it was destroyed in the Valentine’s Day firebombing. Over the next year, she and her infant son fought their way to join her brother, Wilhelm, in Argentina, where Margot opened a clinic for German ex-pats. Throughout his life Herman watched his mother care for her patients.
Herman struggled in medical school but graduated. Having to repeatedly take the FLEX exam changed him. He studied and failed year after year. He hated that damn exam because it delayed his becoming a doctor. His mother died, never knowing he had passed it and gotten his license, and that left a bad taste in his mouth.
He forced himself to see patients, trying to remain calm and professional. Treating patients actually allowed him to forget his troubles. He was contemplating performing an ultrasound on a patient when Sheila knocked on the door.
“Excuse me, Dr. Herman, but Mr. Douglas is on the phone, and he says it’s urgent.”
He excused himself from his patient and went directly to his office. “Hello, Woody, what can I do for you? I’m seeing patients right now.”
Douglas didn’t return his hello. He jumped to the topic on his mind: “We’ve got a big problem, Lars. Your friend Dr. English didn’t show up this morning for surgery. Your patient DeeAnn Bell was prepped and ready to go, but there was no surgeon. The patient’s family is asking questions, and I don’t have any answers. You made the referral to English. I need you to get down here so we can avoid another lawsuit. That jerk Davis is watching us like a hawk. We shouldn’t make it easy for him.”
This was the last thing Herman wanted to deal with, but Douglas made a good point. “Let me finish with this patient and I’ll be right over. Please stay with the family and tell them I’m on my way.”
Herman hung up the phone and cursed Charlie English. He was upset but not surprised. He knew Charlie had been cracking for some time.
